Weakness
by RandomNara
Summary: The Führer has announced the division of the Mustang Unit, and Roy is feeling understandably helpless. [Note: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of the characters in this work - obviously.]


[ **Author's Note: This…is my first work published here. Hopefully, all goes well! I would've liked it to be a little longer, but sometimes, less is more.]**

Roy sighed, and pulled his hand out of his uniform pocket. It was a habit he'd developed recently, one that displayed unwanted weakness. And Roy, already scorned for reaching such levels of success at such a young age, needed no weaknesses.

Yet, at that moment, he was the weakest he'd been in years. Even the loss of Maes couldn't compare to what had just happened. He'd spoken to her already, he'd spoken to all of them. They took it in their stride, but he was still left with a feeling of smoldering fire. He refused to accept this…this _injustice_ the Führer had ordered. How dare he? How _dare_ he take them away?

He remembered losing Maes. How could he forget? Every single moment of that accursed day was mercilessly fixed to the front of his mind. The grief, the fury was still fresh in his memory, and his quest for vengeance lay incomplete, occupying his every thought. _Maes,_ he thought, _how? How did we screw it up? We had everything,_ _ **everything**_ _laid out in front of us. Where did it all go wrong? Where did I fail you?_ Maes had had his weakness too…his love, his life – and it had been strong enough to kill him. Roy had never felt as helpless.

And now, as if Roy hadn't suffered enough sorrow, enough loss, the Führer thought he had the right, the ability, to _interfere_ , to simply _split up_ the Mustang Unit without a second thought….

Briefly taken over by his fury, he slammed his fist down onto his desk. The neatly stacked pile of papers (left here by _her_ ) fell out of alignment, a few sheets scattering across his desk. A small glass desk ornament one of his higher-ups had given him at some social gathering teetered over the edge of the desk and shattered on the floor, causing a racket probably loud enough to alert Führer, that _vile_ , _cunning_ , _unfair_ _son of a –_

He stopped himself.

The guards stationed outside his office came charging in, alarm written all over their faces, but he waved them off. He recalled the conversation he'd had with his unit. Each of them, sent to a different part of Amestris. This was no sudden whim on the Führer's part, this was an active decision to hinder him, to render him harmless.

They'd stripped him of his pawn – Kain Fuery, a loyal, dedicated person, not afraid to take on mountains of work.

They'd stripped him of his rook – Heymans Breda, steadfast and supportive, protecting others to the best of his ability.

They'd stripped him of his bishop – Vato Falman, wise and intelligent beyond belief, his focus surpassing the focus of any other.

They'd stripped him of his knight – Jean Havoc, once capable, strong, and now confined to wheelchair for the rest of his sorry life.

Worst of all, they'd stripped him of his queen – Riza Hawkeye, his voice of reason, his trump card in every fight. _This_ one hurt; thinking of having a unit without his Lieutenant was like immediately admitting defeat. Without her, Roy didn't stand a chance. And now she was gone, stolen, _kidnapped_ by the Führer so that Roy would keep an eye on himself. Held captive by the ruler of the country himself, simply to keep him in line.

"I've failed you, I've failed _all_ of you," he whispered, guilt, resentment and self-pity welling up within him. It was true; it was only because of his carelessness and lack of tact that the damned Führer himself had deemed it a necessity to split up the Mustang Unit.

The Unit, their bonds, the way he relied on all of them, the way he _needed_ all of them…all of it was a weakness. He couldn't function properly without them – they were a _Unit_ , goddammit! (Weakness.)

Involuntarily, his hand reached back into his uniform pocket, and drew it out. The white queen chess piece. He'd taken to carrying it around, and often found himself holding it in times of stress. It was a symbol, a hope. They were all still there. His queen, forever with him. It was a token, a reminder to keep going: it wasn't quite checkmate yet.

And moreover, perhaps with the queen chess piece in his pocket…he could still protect her. No matter what happened, no matter the fate of the country, _she_ would come first, and then the rest of the Unit. He would protect them, put them first. It would be his goal.

He slid the queen chess piece back into his pocket. His queen.

But also his weakness.

 **[Well, there it is, my first story! I love writing, but writing this was quite a daunting task, especially since most of what I write isn't read by anyone else. I hope you liked it! I know, it's quite a pitiful excuse of a story, but it's really all I can get right now. Please review it, and I'm open to constructive criticism – I know it's not exactly a piece of first-rate literature…]**


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